For reasons unknown even to me, all of my kid’s names end in “n”.  Because they all sound the same, I usually end up yelling a combination of their names before resigning myself and just add, “…I  mean, Whatever-Your-Name-Is, stop sprinkling your brother with that watering can full of kool-aid!” 

Since this name issue continues to befuddle me, I have resorted to nicknaming all my children to help keep their identities apart.  My oldest son, I call Number One or Bug.  My middle child I call Dilly Doodles, Boohoo, Dee, Deedles, and Middles.  My youngest child I usually just call Littles, Itty Bitty or Dan Gun (the tae kwon do form I was doing while preggers with him.)  Other times, I just call them all Mr. Brown. 

When I was pregnant with our oldest, whenever anyone would ask what we were going to name the baby, I would announce with the straightest face I could muster, and my proudest voice, “We’ve decided to call him, Lambert!”  I was fairly certain my Mother-In-Law was about to pass out when we told her, however after nearly eight years I think she has finally forgiven me.  Secretly, I was starting to worry.  What if he comes out and we really do call him Lambert his whole life? 

Recently my Number Two son came home from pre-school and announced with childhood glee, he had decided to change his name.  I was intrigued.  What would a four year old like to be called?  “Is it Fred?” I asked him playfully.  “Noooooo!”  “Is it George?” I persisted.  “No, Mom!” “Well, then is it Arnold? Ralph? What? Tell me, I give up!” A broad grin permeated his little face.  “It’s… Stick-A-Pencil-In-Your-Belly-Button!”  (AAAKKK!) “Why that name?” I asked cautiously.  “I dunno, Mom, I just like it.”  That was all the explanation I ever got.  He insisted we call him by that name for about a month before he finally moved on to his next name, Purple Fire Dragon.  I give up, what’s in a name anyway?